Ruined Stones

by Eric Reed

  She had a whole binder full of Glenn Miller records. Before long Grace began to feel she was back in the church hall with Hans.

  “Let’s dance!” Mavis said.

  Hans looked nervously from Mavis to Grace.

  Mavis grabbed a chair and started whirling around the room with it. “Me chair’s me usual partner. A bit stiff in the legs, but he never steps on me toes.”

  Hans stood and with a slight bow offered Grace his hand.

  They moved carefully around the limited floor space, managing to avoid the furniture.

  Hans put his face close to hers. “How could I have stayed away from you, Miss Grace? If I may be so bold, may I ask to escort you to the cinema?

  ***

  “Can you believe it, Jim? The Hun’s back.” Stu gestured toward Mavis’ window. An occasional faint squeal of music leaked into the street. “If he knew what was good for him he’d have stayed away.”

  By chance Jim had run into Stu on Carter Street. “What you hanging around out here for, Stu?”

  “Couldn’t take no more at home. Mam’s been beside herself. We sat down yesterday to eat and all of a sudden she says ‘Robbie’s here. He’s come to spend Christmas with us. Can’t you feel him, Stu?’ Then she starts bubbling.”

  “Could you feel him, then?”

  “Bloody hell, no!”

  Stu didn’t ask why Jim was out. Jim’s old man was someone who’d as soon beat his son as look at him after he’d had a few, and since he was off work today he’d doubtless had more than a few.

  Stu took out his knife. “Maybe I ought to give Rob a Christmas present and put this in the Hun’s back? What d’ya think?”

  A tinny snatch of song made its way outside, something about love.

  Jim dug his hands into his jacket pockets. “Let’s walk. It’s too cold to be standing around.”

  They set off, going nowhere in particular, just keeping ahead of the chill.

  “Put yer knife away, Stu. What if a copper come along? You need to stop all this talk about killing people. Even if Hans is a German, he’s not the German who killed Rob.”

  Stu reluctantly pocketed his knife. Looking at the shiny blade, rubbing his finger carefully along its razor edge, made him feel better, made him believe there would be justice some day.

  The two boys walked on in silence, close enough friends they didn’t need to talk. Turning the corner, they came to the temple.

  Jim leaned against an altar. “Don’t it seem strange how you go out to walk around and always end up at these ruins? Like they were some kind of magnet?”

  “You’re daft.”

  “Well, we’re here, ain’t we?”

  “Where else would we be in Benwell? There’s nothing. You only notice when you get here because you’ve arrived somewhere.”

  Jim shook his head. “Yer a deep one, Stu. Either that or a fool.”

  “Maybe, but I ain’t standing where them dead bodies was laid out. The tart’s arms and legs was bent just like a swastika. I seen them.”

  Jim shrugged. “And you was telling me I was daft for thinking there’s something queer about this place.”

  “I’m not talking about some old stones, I’m talking about dead bodies.” Stu paced around the foundations. “It was the Hun killed Ronny,” he said suddenly. “He’s carrying on with Ronny’s wife, isn’t he? Another reason he should be dead. One of these days, he’s going to pay, and everyone helping him is going to help foot the bill.”

  “What? You mean like Ronny’s wife? What would Ronny think of that?”

  “Ronny’s dead. He ain’t thinking nothing.”

  “And that copper staying with her? You wouldn’t kill a copper?”

  “Wouldn’t I? I’d do anything to beat the Huns.”

  “Anything? Are you sure?”

  “What yer getting at?”

  Jim nodded in the direction of Rutherford’s maisonette. “Old geezer there used to give these talks at the church hall. Friend of me mam’s went. Reckoned he was always going on about ancient knowledge. Reckoned he could stop the Nazis with some magical rubbish, only nobody would help him do it.”

  “Don’t surprise me none. He’s soft in the head.”

  “That’s what everyone says. Rutherford reckoned if they’d only give him a hand with what he called a cone of power, it would do the job. Said it’d get this god the Romans worshipped right where we’re standing to help defeat Hitler. Me mam’s friend rattled on and on about it, but said she wasn’t about to dance naked around a bonfire.”

  “Ah, yer pulling me leg, Jim.”

  “I’m not. Swear to God.”

  Stu looked at him. “What god?”

  “Whatever one you like.” Jim pushed himself away from the altar. “I’m gannen eeyem. Dad’ll be out of it by now.”

  Stu took a last look around before they left. He had never noticed before but the altar against which Jim had been leaning had a knife carved on one side.

  Parting from Jim, he continued home, thinking about the carving. They didn’t mess about, them Romans. No doubt when the temple still stood, sacrifices were many. After the building’s remains were hidden by darkness, would shadows detach themselves from the altar and move around within its confines? He cast an uneasy look back as he reached the corner of Carter Street.

  Rutherford’s idea was daft, Stu told himself on his way home and again when he had sneaked in past his mother and locked himself in his room. Daft.

  And he was daft for not dismissing it out of hand.

  But Rob was rotting in his grave and he could hear his mother sobbing in the kitchen.

  In the light of day religion was obviously rubbish, a superstition left over from the past. But at times, in the darkness of his room without any distractions from the temporarily invisible workaday world, Stu could almost believe in God.

  Even if He hadn’t answered his prayers to avenge Rob.

  Maybe the Roman god was more powerful. The ruins of his temple remained after thousands of years. The Romans had conquered the whole world, or so he’d learned at school. They must have had real gods. Strong, fighting gods. Roman gods hadn’t advised their followers to turn the other cheek, had they?

  What they wanted was sacrifices on altars decorated with carvings of a knife. The idea appealed to him. If the old god wanted blood, if the god existed, was still alive somewhere, wouldn’t he want such offerings to resume?

  That black cat that hung about the ruins would be a good start. Certainly worth thinking about. It might take some doing, though, since he’d tried to catch it before and now it raced off as soon as it saw him. Thinking of the cat reminded him of Rutherford’s mangy herd of flea-bitten pets. Might have better luck nabbing one of them.

  His thoughts swung from Rutherford’s cats to the cone of power business Jim had mentioned.

  And yet…what if? What if there were the smallest chance of it working?

  Stu was resigned to hanging for killing one Hun.

  Would he dare make a fool out of himself to stop the Nazis completely?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It snowed the day after Boxing Day, too late for Christmas when snow might have been appreciated. There was enough for Grace to leave footprints on the pavement on her way to the police station. She admired how the streets and rooftops were for once a clean white. The sky remained the dirty grey of despair.

  The station was cold. Wallace was typing two-fingered on an ancient sit-up-and-beg typewriter, scowling near-sightedly at the form he was labouring to fill in. He looked up when the tinkle of the bell on the shop door announced Grace’s arrival. “Thank goodness you’re here. I can’t make out half of Baines’ scrawl. Why can’t he type his reports up instead of expecting us to do it?”

  “Probably thinks it’s women’s work.”

  Wallace gr
inned. “Now you mention it…”

  “I never learned to type,” Grace informed him firmly.

  Wallace’s eyebrows went up. Before he could say anything Grace asked if he’d noticed anything useful at the funeral.

  “Apart from Sefton, a couple of Ronny’s old acquaintances attended it and by acquaintances I mean accomplices. I’m wondering how they would have known to be there to pay their respects if he hadn’t let them know he was back.”

  “In which case might Ronny have been making plans with them?”

  “Either that or getting ready to resume any business they’d been up to before he went into the forces. Of course they knew nothing, as usual.”

  Grace went into the kitchen and brought back two steaming cups of tea. If Wallace had to do the typing at least she could fetch him tea. “Sefton came to see Mavis,” she said. “He was trying to find out if Ronny had left any unfinished business she might know about. She said no. The conversation wasn’t friendly.”

  Wallace cradled his cup in his hands. “Warms me poor, abused typing fingers nice, this does.”

  Grace ignored the hint. “What does Sergeant Baines think about it all?”

  “He doesn’t seem all that interested.”

  Two constables arrived, tracking snow into the room, and greeting Wallace while ignoring Grace.

  “Don’t mind them.” Wallace remarked. “They’re bashful. The Dutchman’s story of how he got here appears to be correct, so far as it can be checked with the refugee people. Seeing as Holland is under Nazi control right now, we can’t find out anything from there. He may have had a criminal record. No way of knowing.”

  Grace suppressed a wince at hearing Hans described as “the Dutchman.” She told Wallace about Hans’ return, where he had gone, and his reasons for flight.

  “Running away certainly makes him look suspicious. On the other hand, with a bit of time a person can calm down and think up a plausible story.”

  “He’ll be coming to the station to be interviewed.” She also hoped he wouldn’t say anything incriminating. He was not, after all, a native English-speaker. She made a mental note to check the Arkwright file for his statement in due course.

  “What about Charlie Gibson?” she asked. “Just between us, he’d be my first pick as a suspect. There was that scene at Mavis’ house while Ronny’s body was still there.”

  “Charlie has a legitimate grievance.”

  “His daughter, Phyllis, has a grievance as well.”

  Wallace laughed. “If that’s what you call a bairn in Shropshire! A grievance! I’m not surprised she took up with Ronny. A right pair they were. She was a little devil, always in and out of trouble. She came close to knifing one of the lasses in her class for going out with a boyfriend of hers, did Phyllis. All three of them fourteen at the time!”

  Grace wasn’t sure why but the image of the temple came into her mind and with it a conjecture. “Suppose she met Ronny somewhere during those missing days, and for some reason they arranged to meet again at night? Too far-fetched?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m glad she’s not our problem.”

  “Her mother told me Phyllis stole money from her after Nica was born and left the baby behind. She said she doesn’t know where Phyllis went.”

  “Went to work as a tart, of course. What else would a girl like her do?”

  Grace thought about her visit to the Gibsons and how delighted Nica had been with her presents. What a shame it was for a girl to have such wretched excuses for parents. “Does Phyllis come back to visit her daughter? Nica asked her grandmother whether her auntie was going to bring presents. Do you think…?”

  “That auntie might really be mam? Happens all the time. Could be worth looking into.”

  “What about that misguided child who’s trying to pass herself off as a prostitute? She told me an old neighbor put the idea into her head.”

  “It would be the sort of thing Phyllis would do.” He called over a constable who was filling out reports at a table by the shelves. “Briggs, you’ve dealt with Lulu.”

  The young man smiled in amusement. “Yes, sir, I have at that.”

  “Any idea who convinced her to try to get herself arrested?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you seen her with any tarts?”

  Briggs shook his head.

  “Do you know Phyllis Gibson, Constable Briggs?” Grace asked.

  Briggs looked from Grace to Wallace.

  “Answer the lady,” Wallace said. “She won’t bite. Furthermore, she’s here to stay, whatever Sergeant Baines might have told you.”

  “Yes, sir. Um, no, miss. Never heard of this Phyllis.” He looked nervously back at Wallace. “Should I know her?”

  “You haven’t been with us long enough, Briggs. If you were here when Phyllis lived in the street you wouldn’t forget her. Any unfamiliar ladies of our fair pavements been around in the past week or so? You check on the ruins regularly.”

  “The tarts—excuse me, miss—have abandoned that as a meeting spot. I wonder why?”

  “Aye. Well, the locals were always complaining we couldn’t keep the ladies away. I hope they’re happy now!”

  The doorbell announced a new arrival.

  Wallace stood up. “Constable Robinson. Just the man I want to see.” He slapped the carriage return lever hard. “I’ve been helping you out with these forms, but now you can take over yourself. Tapping them keys will warm you up!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Lily’s mother was not happy to have a constable call. “I suppose this is what you’re here about!” To Grace’s surprise she showed her a magazine. Tales of Wonder. The cover showed panicked crowds fleeing a futuristic city over which loomed a bright green cloud.

  “I don’t imagine it’s illegal, Mrs. Dixon. What is the problem?”

  “Look what it says on the cover. ‘The Menace From Space.’ What sort of rubbish is that for a child to read? As if we wasn’t menaced enough by them Huns, let alone green clouds from space.” Mrs. Dixon was every bit as loud as she’d been when she’d visited Mavis the day of the funeral.

  “I understand, but—”

  “She stole it, didn’t she? And somebody saw her do it. She don’t have money for such things.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. I want to speak with Lily, but not about stealing.”

  Mrs. Dixon stopped waving the magazine about. “Well, that’s a relief.” She glowered at the cover. “Me daughter lets her imagination run wild, she does. It’s going to get her into trouble.”

  Grace thought it a distinct possibility. “Children all have overactive imaginations. She’ll grow out of it.”

  Mrs. Dixon tossed the magazine down on the kitchen table and brushed her hands together as if to clean off any toxins from the green cloud. “I done my best, with me husband off to the war. She needs a strong hand, Lily does. All this nonsense about her trying to get herself arrested. The neighbours made sure I knew about that. Now I’m ashamed to show me face in the street.”

  “I’ve spoken to her about it. I don’t think you need to worry about it anymore, Mrs. Dixon. She’s not that kind of girl.” Grace hoped she sounded reassuring. Really, she had no idea what kind of girl Lily was.

  When Grace confronted her she was a sulky kind of girl. She sat slumped on the edge of her bed. “You going to take me down to the station? I’ll go peaceable.”

  “I’m only here to talk to you, Lily.”

  “Got nothing to say.”

  Grace decided to take the blunt approach. “The old neighbor who told you prostitution was money for jam. That was Phyllis Gibson, wasn’t it?”

  Lily straightened up, alarmed. “You won’t get me to say nothing bad about Phyllis. She’s me friend.”

  “All I want to know is when did Phyllis put these ideas into your head?�
��

  “Summer.” The girl’s voice trembled.

  “Do you see her often?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve seen her more than once?”

  “I shouldn’t have said nothing.” She screwed her face up in defiance.

  “When was the last time? You must tell me, Lily, it’s important.”

  Lily shrugged. “Seen her down the street one night last week.”

  Grace had decided to interview Lily before confronting the Gibsons. It appeared Phyllis had visited her parents recently. They had lied about not seeing her or knowing the whereabouts of their granddaughter’s “auntie.”

  She could see how Phyllis, no doubt well turned out and confident, would appeal to a child living under straitened conditions in Benwell.

  “You shouldn’t pay attention to what Phyllis says, Lily. One last question. Your mother thinks you stole a magazine. Did you?”

  Lily scowled and remained silent.

  “It looked quite interesting. I read detective novels myself.”

  Lily gave Grace a curious look. “You won’t tell, will you? They’re me dad’s. I found a box of them in the back of their wardrobe.”

  ***

  “Off to your room now, and mind you shut the door.” Veronica’s grandmother shushed the little girl away with her hands, the same voice and gestures she had once used to shoo Molly, their cat, off the kitchen table.

  Veronica went slowly to her room and closed the door until it clicked, shutting her off from whatever was going to happen that she wasn’t supposed to know about. Molly had gone away a long time ago. Veronica’s father had explained that because of Mr. Hitler there wasn’t enough food for pets so Molly had to go to a new place. It was mean of Mr. Hitler to take food from dogs and cats, Veronica thought. He must be a very bad man.

  She sat on her bed with her red knitted teddy bear. The Spitfire brooch looked nice on Teddy. She had made sure to pin the brooch through his pretend fur and not his skin. As soon as she heard the police lady’s voice in the hall she had rushed into the kitchen to show her how well Teddy looked wearing the brooch.